Dipping a toe in...
READ: Losing balance, falling, splashing. trying not to drown, just keep swimming.... Come on in, the water's fine.
Beginnings are hard. So is the middle.
A few years ago, I was pretty into walking. Partly for exercise, more so to wander. Mind-walking. (Not to be confused with mind-reading.)
It was the Covid pandemic, and what else was there to do besides avoid people, wash groceries, and stock up on bubbles and chalk? We sheltered in place in our Nashville, Tennessee home, not far from a dedicated greenway full of trees, trails, deer, morning fog, and the most stunning, stop-thinking-and-just-be sunrises. Not normally a rise-and-shine kind of gal, I became addicted to my 6 a.m. hikes.
Nearby there was slow but active work on a new housing development. I came to enjoy watching this future “community” evolve, hope in its preservation (not destruction) of the nature trails. Some evenings as a family, we’d detour from the greenway itself to walk through the sprouting neighborhood. We’d study the choices for new street names, guess where a dirt road might lead, and check on the stray tomato plant we found growing on one of the corners, wondering which construction worker had a turkey club for lunch….
Once we watched a kid and his grandpa fly remote control model air planes. Often we reveled in the mostly quiet. With our then 4-year old daughter usually asleep in the wagon, we pondered the juxtaposition of nature and modern urban dwelling.
I did most of the morning strolls solo — my time to reflect, get inspired, be grateful, and start my day on the right foot. When I came back an hour later, my partner often remarked I looked invigorated and happy, that I had a spark. Those morning walks in that greenway — despite all that was going on in the world — always felt good.
When I wasn’t actually walking, I was reading about walking. And about wandering. About being present, slowing down, tuning in, finding joy. I fell in love with Keri Smith’s The Wander Society, and read part of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
Solvitur Ambulando: It is solved by walking.
This wasn’t my first obsession with foot travel. I used to go on walks when I was in college, when I’d feel stuck or fed up. So full of angst I didn’t know what to do with, I found relief in the brash, cold fall air hitting my face. With every step, every breath, I felt a cleanse — a rush of renewal that forced out the despair, making room for hope to begin again.
Later in my late-20s, my business partner/close friend/eventual lover and I would occasionally go for a walk, sometimes a drive. He’d launch us into deep conversations by asking “what’s it all about?” or “what are the things you know for sure?”.
Here I was in my 40s, feeling the same need to renew, exploring the same questions. This time through a less innocent, more weathered lens.
The pandemic-induced reality accelerated feelings of longing and searching already brewing in me. I was frustrated with my job while simultaneously, enormously grateful I had such a great one. I worked for an organization that knew how to go virtual quickly, kept me employed, and encouraged taking extra time to take care. Leaders never complained about kids showing up on Zoom calls. Rather, they invited them in, wanting to see their smiling faces and say hi.
I was extremely lucky. I was also stuck, disheartened, bored, and stagnant. Not yet burned out, but on the way. No longer certain what it’s all about, and much less confident I knew anything for sure.
Fast-forward: Job-hopping —> soul-searching —> free-lancing?
Spoiler alert: I quit my day job.
2022 was a big year. I married my person, had the wedding of my dreams, and moved into a new neighborhood. We traveled and reconnected with friends and family. We sold/renovated/rented houses. We fell in love with our new school community.
It also featured a pressured-into leave of absence from a career and a bully manager who rattled me (and others) to tears. I had already bounced around several internal roles searching for the “right fit”. And I was exhausted from the politics, the PowerPoint drooling, and “managing up”. After 11 years at the company, I officially resigned. Like finally breaking off a sometimes-horrible-sometimes-healthy long-term relationship, I ping-ponged through relief, bitterness, hope, grief, lack of self-worth, determination, and confusion. I queued up one of my dad’s favorite songs, cranked up the volume, and cried.
Well before quitting, I had rediscovered my love for writing. I managed, designed, and wrote for several internal department newsletters. These were supposed to be extracurriculars, but I found myself prioritizing any work where I got to write.
Post-quitting, I explored copywriting as a way to apply my obsession with “customer centricity”, create content, and earn a nice living. I took a handful of courses, made friends through a kick-ass accountability group (we still meet almost weekly), and focused on writing blog posts and case studies for clients. I also joined a local board for one of my favorite non-profits, and got more active in my daughter’s school, helping write content for both.
But it was all still, meh.
I was feeling the same burn-out triggers with the things I supposedly loved. I was cynical, snarky, struggling to motivate. My morale was turning into sludge, while my frustration was soaring. How did I manage to free myself from the shackles of a hyper-demanding day job just to still be in the same emotional spin-cycle? And now without a paycheck.
More change was needed.
Making strides —> Substacking
I finally admitted to myself that I was still searching my thing — my purpose/career/joy. I wanted to write for me — the stories I wanted to tell, my way, my voice. I sought a safe place to express, and the courage to do so. No chest-beating (sneering at you, LinkedIn), no manufactured influencing, no selling, no clients, no restrictions imposed by the risk department. Just me.
Oh shit. Just me.
Poking around on Substack, I found a friendly audience of writers and readers alike. And incredible writing. Fucking amazing writing. I found peace in the heart-warming candor of Katie Hawkins-Gaar’s My Sweet Dumb Brain. I felt understood and hopeful reading Courtney Martin’s stories of sabbatical in the examined family. Laura Kennedy’s Peak Notions lent me loads of courage. Above the Fold by Leah Mennies inspired me to explore the creative possibilities of a deliciously punny theme. And Alex Dobrenko reminded me it was more than ok to be BAT-shit crazy, all while making me laugh out loud.
Could I do what they do? Would I be welcomed in? Is this just another insane suck-your-soul social media platform? Will I ever stop over-thinking?
After hemming and hawing and procrastinating and hawing some more, here I am, on Substack. Writing for me. And you.
I am launching this newsletter to connect with you, through shared experiences centered on walking and wandering. I want to build a community where we (re)discover and celebrate our individual and collective free-spirits, in a world that tries diligently (and effortlessly) to squash them. All kind souls from all walks of life are welcome here. Pun intended.
By my stride is a twice-monthly-hopefully-weekly newsletter filled with stories big and small. Sometimes about physical step-taking, more often about mental and emotional journeys, I plan to share my personal reflections with some non-me worldly stuff mixed in (quotes, books, notable “walks”, inspiration, humor…). It’s a living newsletter, taking shape one step at a time.
This post: Step #1.
I invite you to be by my stride, wherever this path takes me us. Let’s start a conversation!
Hey Wendy! Great start and thank you for sharing your story. The “writing for me” feeling was the toughest for me too to surpass, to lock in on a purpose for writing, and with every post it goes away. Good luck on this journey and can’t wait to read more.